


The Maleficar's Templar

by magisterpavus



Series: CRY HAVOC IN THE MOONLIGHT: a dragon age sheith au [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Angst, Blood Magic, Elves, Enemies to Friends, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, Mages and Templars, Murder, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Revenge, Secrets, did not expect sheith friendship to hurt me just as much as sheith in love. but it did. do that.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 09:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.This is the warning mantra of the Templar Order, and Ser Takashi Shirogane knows it well. He believes it, too, until he meets Keith, a blood mage on the run with more goodness in him than in any of Shiro's fellow knights, and he learns that men can rule over each other far more cruelly than magic.But this warning exists for a reason...and even those filled with goodness may fall to save the ones they love.





	The Maleficar's Templar

**Author's Note:**

> >:)
> 
> I am SO EXCITED to share this big ol Sheith/VLD Dragon Age AU with you guys. The wonderful [@hamlinfly](https://twitter.com/hamlinfly?lang=en) and I have been cookin up this monster of an AU for ages (pun intended) and we hope you'll enjoy it as much as we do, even if you're not an absolute Dragon Age Lore Nerd like me, and even if you haven't played any of the games, or have no clue what I'm talking about! You don't even have to know what a dragon is. All will be explained...and I mean all....and the map may be helpful ;D
> 
> This story will be split into "acts" within a series, and Act I is basically "hey what if pre-kerberos but dragon age?" :') i guess I just love 2 hurt myself, guys! whew!!
> 
> The lovely art in Act I is by the aforementioned Hami, the very extra map is by me. Without further ado...

_To the Great Protector / Su Ir’Amelan_

 

_Ar’an dosan ehn varshiir; lahna su em, i jugaran_

_i’tel lanaste, i’tel geal_

_Irlahna veredhe in lea’vune_

_Lasa nan’ise nuis, tuaun leal._

 

_We few who travel far; call to me and I will come,_

_Without mercy, without fear._

_Cry havoc in the moonlight,_

_Let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear._

***

The worst things a person can be in the City of Kirkwall are an elf or a mage, and Keith is both.

The worst kind of elf you can be is Dalish, and Keith is that.

The worst kind of Dalish you can be is half, and Keith is that, too.

The worst kind of mage you can be is a blood mage apostate.

Keith is also that.

All in all, it isn’t the life he would have chosen. But he didn’t have much say over a certain Rivaini sailor stumbling across a certain Dalish Keeper just shy of twenty-five years ago. So stumble they did, and Keith happened, on a rainy night in a locked tavern room in Starkhaven.

But before Keith — to be exact, six years before him — south of the grim city called Kirkwall and the lush forests of the Free Marches, on the cold sea cliffs of Amaranthine, a boy named Takashi was born in the tallest tower of a drafty keep. He was the fourth son of a minor arl by the name of Shirogane, and as a boy Takashi was often overlooked and ignored, for he would inherit little and had no title.

Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that when the brave order of knights who protected the world from dangerous mages came to Amaranthine, Takashi left with them, hoping to make something of himself as a noble Templar.

*

_ACT I: THE MALEFICAR’S TEMPLAR_

The place is a bloodbath.

Dozens of slavers’ mangled corpses litter the ground, variously broken and dismembered, the warehouse’s stone walls splattered with messy red, air heavy with the putrid scent of death. Shiro keeps his hand on the pommel of his sword, scanning the scattered bodies warily for signs of movement. He has no sympathy for slavers, but this is an atrocity. Murdered isn’t even the right word for what was done to them — butchered, more like.

A hand twitches in the corner of his eye and Shiro whirls, hurrying to the groaning man. He’s covered in blood, like everything else, but his dazed eyes meet Shiro’s, and a weak word comes from his mouth: _“Maleficar.”_

Shiro nods. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. Where did they go, did you see?”

The dying man points weakly towards the entry to the tunnels below the warehouse, which connect to the sewers. “He’ll kill you…”

Shiro frowns. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, though his heart pounds as he imagines what monster must be responsible for this carnage, and what else they must be capable of.

He leaves the slaver to bleed out. Shiro is here to catch blood mages, not save those who profit off of capturing and selling others.

The sewers are damp and rank, and Shiro lets the pale blue light of his lyrium vial guide him through the twisting tunnels. The mage’s trail is easy to find — his footprints are clearly visible, but small and narrow, which gives Shiro pause. Perhaps the slaver was mistaken and the maleficar is a woman. Or perhaps…

He rounds a sharp corner and freezes. There is a figure hunched over in the passage’s dead end, knees curled to their chest and shaggy black hair hanging into their face. Blood drips down their pale arms and puddles at their bare feet, and slim, pointed ears twitch at Shiro’s hesitant approach. The mage’s head jerks up, and Shiro stops again.

He’s a _child._ An elven child with terrified violet eyes and arms covered in shallow cuts. Bile rises in Shiro’s throat.

“Stop!” the boy cries, voice shaking as badly as his hands. “I’ll kill you, Templar!”

Roiling red magic sparks at his fingertips in warning as he pulls on the power within his own blood, and Shiro lifts his hands, calling upon the power of lyrium and years of grueling discipline, dispelling the magic before it can come to fruition. He’s unprepared for the raw, awful fear in the boy’s eyes at the realization that Shiro can counter his magic.

Then his eyes narrow in reckless desperation and he gathers up what must be ten times the magic, an amount that, when released, will surely rip him apart from the inside out.

“Kid, you’re gonna kill yourself!” Shiro warns, stepping forward despite every instinct telling him to run. Unnatural energy crackles at his skin, every hair standing on end.

The boy grits his teeth. “Isn’t that what you’re here to do?” he demands, voice breaking.

Shiro stares at him, the sword in his hand a heavy and terrible weight. The boy is crying and Shiro doesn’t even know if he’s aware of it. He’ll be unconscious from blood loss within minutes, yet he remains standing with shaking, knobby knees. Shiro doesn’t know what he suffered at the hands of the slavers, but it must have been traumatic and terrifying.

The boy stares back at him with fading eyes, and the closer Shiro looks, the tighter his gut twists. He has dark circles and sunken cheekbones, a thin and heaving chest, tangled hair matted with sweat and blood, and more wounds than Shiro can count, including wrists rubbed raw and bleeding from slave manacles.

The grim expression on the boy’s face is one not meant for someone so young, and in that moment, Shiro shoves aside every teaching that the Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth instilled in him about blood mages. Because this one is only a boy, and Shiro has an inkling that he has suffered more than any child should. He deserves a second chance. Shiro at least has to _try_ to give him one _._

And, if he’s being honest, he’s hurt and punished enough people who would have been considered innocent if they were not unlucky enough to be mages. If there is any chance at atonement for either of them, Shiro thinks, this is it. 

“No,” Shiro finally says. “I’m not here to kill you.”

This promise has the opposite intended effect — the boy stumbles back, pale as a ghost. _“No,”_ he gasps, “don’t make me Tranquil, I would rather die —”

Shiro’s eyes widen. “No one is making you Tranquil –”

 _“Get away from me,”_ the boy snarls, the angry red magic around him swirling, swelling, brimming with unbelievable power...and fizzling out into nothing as Shiro hastily dispels it again and he collapses to the ground, eyes rolling back in his head. Shiro runs to him, and the magic is gone entirely when he catches the boy’s limp body in his arms. His head lolls against Shiro’s chest, lashes fluttering, then falling still.

Shiro keeps another dispel at the ready just in case, but he’s fairly certain the boy is out cold. Even if he were to wake up, he’s seriously weakened, and if Shiro had to guess, untrained. He doesn’t look like any Circle mage Shiro’s ever seen, and he’s clearly elvhen, but lacks the Dalish coming-of-age facial tattoos, the vallaslin. City elf, then? Are there other apostates like him, mentors perhaps, who may come to his aid and seek revenge?

He shakes his head and hauls the boy up into his arms. No use speculating; he’ll have to ask the boy himself when he wakes up.

 _If_ he wakes up. He’s bleeding all over Shiro’s armor, and Shiro fumbles with the healing potions and bandages at his belt, wrapping them deftly over the boy’s bleeding forearms and uncorking the potion with his teeth, guiding it to chapped, parted lips. He’s starting to stir slightly, and coughs when the potion hits his tongue. Shiro strokes his throat, coaxing him to swallow, and he does with difficulty, going slack again. He doesn’t vomit it up, so Shiro counts it as a victory.

This victory is immediately forgotten when Shiro realizes he has no idea how to get the boy out of Darktown undetected.

As a Templar-recently-made-Seeker of Truth, he is legally allowed to haul around mages, especially blood mages, without being questioned. But carrying an unconscious, bleeding elvhen boy around Kirkwall wouldn’t be a good look. People would talk, and they might talk to Knight Commander Sanda, and that would not end well for Shiro once she learned he had failed to complete his mission.

So he must be discrete.

His very bad solution to this is to sling the boy over his shoulder, tucked under his cloak, and pray that it will be dark enough, and his uniform imposing enough, for people to suspect nothing.

Shiro takes the sewers as far as he can, until the ground falls away to a bubbling miasma of filth and he is forced to backtrack up the nearest ladder. The ladder spits him out in Lowtown, not far from The Hanged Man. Shiro stays well away from the tavern – the last thing he needs is gossip from drunkards.

The alienage is easy to find; one need only follow the increasingly dilapidated buildings and shady streets to find the elvhen ghetto at the heart of the bad part of town. Shiro has half a mind to duck into an alleyway before he gets there so he can strip off his Seeker tunic and the most obtrusive of his armor. He hesitates before shedding his red cloak as well, carefully wrapping it around the boy like a blanket – though it’s doubtful he can even feel the night’s chill – then gathering him up into his arms and hurrying into the alienage.

He attracts stares immediately, and ducks his head. The boy stirs against his chest and a pair of passing elves freeze, ears flicking back and already-wide eyes growing wider as they notice the boy’s pointed ears and the smear of blood high on his cheekbone. _“Templar,”_ one of them hisses, eyeing the boy with open concern and anxiety.

She tenses, clearly about to run for help, when the other elf stops her. “Wait,” she whispers. “Maybe he’s one of the good ones.”

Shiro pauses and turns to them, and the elves shrink back, though the one who spoke last stares back with a quivering chin and defiant set to her brow. “Please, I need a healer,” Shiro murmurs, nodding to the boy. “He’s lost a great deal of blood.” The elves say nothing, still suspicious, and rightfully so. Shiro sighs. “Listen, I know Romelle and her family. My name is Takashi Shirogane.” The elves gasp, and exchange startled looks. “I helped her little brother through his Harrowing –”

“Yes, yes, we know who you are,” the bolder one snaps, and gestures towards a cluster of low dwellings. “Come, quickly. Before you and your damned red cloak are spotted.”

Shiro follows them through a doorway he has to stoop under, and is faced with the sight of a homely kitchen and three pairs of shocked, glowing elvhen eyes. Shiro does not yelp, but it is a near thing. Like cats, they are. Not that Shiro doesn’t find cats charming. And elves, for that matter.

He crushes that train of thought hastily. Now is certainly _not_ the time.

One of the elves, sitting at the kitchen table, leaps to her feet and clasps her hands together, long blonde pigtails swinging in some invisible breeze. “Oh! Ser Shirogane! Our humble home is blessed by your being here –” She blanches and covers her mouth. “Is something the matter with Bandor? Or – _oh._ Oh, my.” She finally notices the boy bleeding out when he groans and squirms, not away but rather closer to Shiro’s chest.

“Your brother is quite alright,” Shiro assures her. “I have not come on his behalf. This boy is in need of urgent healing, and eventually, if possible, a safe place to stay. I was hoping you might know how to help him...without attracting attention.”

Romelle’s mother, a freckled elf with tired eyes called Fala, steps forward at once. “Such a place may exist, Ser Shirogane, but if you will forgive my saying so, an apostate healer would fear your kind.”

As if on cue, the boy’s eyes fly open, and he flails blindly, fingertips releasing a violent shower of sparks. Romelle’s father drops a plate. The boy shudders, and falls still again, eyes drooping shut.

Shiro swallows. “As you can see,” he mutters, “I have an apostate right here.”

“I see,” Fala whispers. “I...very well, serrah.” She hesitates, then turns to a cluttered desk and fetches a bit of parchment. She scribbles something down, and hands it to him like the paper is aflame. “Go to this address, serrah. Ask for Doctor Holt.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, and fumbles with his coin pouch. “For your help –”

“No, serrah,” Fala murmurs, shaking her head and backing away. “It is alright. Go. Please. Before someone sees you here.”

 _And punishes us for it,_ remains unspoken. Shiro’s hand falls limp to his side and he clears his throat. “Er, yes. Very well. Good night to you all.” He inclines his head and walks out, boy in tow, trying and failing to justify the fear shining bright in their eyes.

*

The address leads him back to Darktown, though thankfully not to a pile of corpses. It’s just a single, unmarked door, and he raps at it firmly three times, glancing anxiously down at the boy, who is well on his way to waking again.

The door’s slitted window slides open and a pair of hazel eyes behind huge round glasses glare at him. “State your business,” a gruff voice snaps.

Shiro’s brows draw together. “I have an injured child here,” he says. “Badly wounded, bleeding won’t stop, he was taken by slavers –”

The door cracks open and metal gleams faintly from within. Shiro takes a step back, reaching for the pommel of his sword. “Child?” The person snorts. “And I’m a monkey’s uncle. Hey!” There are sounds of a scuffle.

“He’s young. And elvhen. And bleeding an awful lot, dear me.”

“Sure, but he’s not a _kid,_ look, he’s at _least_ five years older than me! Elves run small, Dad! Maybe he’s just runty, and maybe the blood is paint, it could be a complete trap –”

The door swings open and a dwarf with a graying beard and kind, spectacled eyes steps out of the dimly-lit interior. “Come in, then, serrah. That boy looks to be on death’s door – you’ve come to the right place.”

“Fala from the alienage directed me here,” Shiro says, stooping again through the doorway and blinking in the narrow, shadowy hall. As his vision adjusts, he sees another dwarf, a young woman, glaring fiercely at him. She has huge round spectacles. “What’s your name?” he asks her.

“Fuck off,” she retorts, and stomps off down the hall, casting a suspicious glance over her shoulder.

“Excuse my daughter’s manners, she will be in trouble later,” the older dwarf sighs, shaking his head and leading Shiro down another branch of the hall. “Now, what happened to this unfortunate soul? Slavers, you said?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “He was in bad shape when I found him. And, er…” He pauses, unsure of how much to reveal, but wary of the boy making another lightshow – or worse. “He’s an apostate, sir.”

The dwarf hardly reacts. “Yes, yes,” he says, “I assumed something of the sort. Normal folk don’t exactly drop by here often. I’m Doctor Samuel Holt, by the way. You?”

“Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro says.

The doctor pauses, and furrows his brow. “Swear I’ve heard that name before.”

“I was a Templar in Kirkwall’s Circle,” Shiro tells him. “Recently appointed Seeker of Truth. Have a feeling that’s bound to change soon.”

The doctor peers at him knowingly. “Ah. Followed your conscience for once rather than your laws and rites, eh? Not easy, that, and you’re damn right about losing all your fancy titles if they find out, but it was the right thing to do. That much is true. Here, lay the boy on the table and I’ll fetch some soup and water for when he wakes.”

“He…he doesn’t need soup,” Shiro says stupidly as Doctor Holt hurries away without another word. Shiro frowns and sets the boy onto the low table, eyeing the many flickering candles and cabinets full of strange herbs with deep dread. “I was hoping you would have a mage –”

“We do. Don’t get any ideas.”

Shiro whirls on his heel as a heavyset Qunari man with dark skin, small sharp horns with a bright orange band of cloth keeping his short dark hair pushed back, and a very large battlehammer steps out of an open doorway. “Is that a threat?” Shiro demands, forcing himself to stay calm. Andraste, what is a _Qunari_ doing _here?!_

The man shrugs, and sets the hammer down, leaning it against the doorframe. “Only if it needs to be,” he says. “Shay? He’s a Templar, all right.”

“I don’t mind, Hunk. If Samuel trusts him, so do I.” Another Qunari steps out of the doorway, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiling. She’s not any smaller, and has an impressive set of curling ram-like horns. Instead of a battlehammer, she carries a thin mage staff of dark wood, tipped with a glowing, golden orb. Shay offers Shiro a small smile, and walks to the other side of the table, peeling the bloodied cloak away to reveal the elvhen boy in full. “Poor thing. You just found him like this?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, keeping his distance, though for whatever reason he doesn’t wish to stray too far from the boy’s side. “I bandaged up what I could, but I don’t think it’s doing much good...”

“I know slavers are cruel, but I’ve never seen a victim with so many wounds. I wonder what he did to piss them off so much – or perhaps they were just bored.” She shakes her head in disgust. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive, there’s so much –” Shay pauses in her examination, fingers stilling on the boy’s repeatedly slashed forearms. She slowly lifts her gaze to Shiro.

“Samuel said he was a mage,” Shay says.

“Yes,” Shiro says.

“And how do you know this?” Shay’s gaze is unyielding.

“I’m a Templar, we –”

“Are ordered to hunt down and kill any and all blood mages,” Shay finishes. The other Qunari, Hunk, bristles and looks to the boy, then to Shiro, in shock. “So why didn’t you?”

“He’s just a kid,” Shiro starts.

“He is, at a guess, fifteen,” Shay says coolly. “How old were you when the Order recruited you into their ranks, hm?”

“Too young,” Shiro says quietly, and her hard gaze softens.

“Ah.” Shay frowns down at the boy. “Noble though your actions were, blood mages are vilified for a reason.”

“He was desperate,” Shiro says. “And scared. Who knows what they would have done to him?”

“And what of the slavers?” Hunk demands.

“Dead,” Shiro admits. “Every last one of them.”

 _“Vashedan,”_ Hunk swears. “Don’t you templars usually execute mages for even _talking_ about blood magic?”

“I’m a Seeker of Truth,” Shiro retorts. “I do as I wish.”

“Somehow, I doubt the other Seekers will agree with that sentiment,” Shay murmurs, and draws her hand over the boy’s brow, palm thrumming with pale yellow light. “But...there may be hope for the boy. Not all blood mages fall to the corruption of demons and become abominations. If he has not yet fallen prey to one, he may be able to give up the practice altogether.”

“Yes,” Shiro says, “yes, that is what I hoped for –”

“Only time will tell,” Shay finishes, and nods to the door. “Doctor Samuel will contact you when the boy is stable, and even then, it will be wholly up to him whether or not he sees you again.”

Shiro nods, though he dislikes the thought of never seeing the boy again, he understands all too well that the boy has every reason to want to stay as far away from him as possible. “Then...he will be stable? You can heal him?”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” Shay chuckles and shakes her head. “Go home, Ser Shirogane. He will be alright. You were right to bring him here...rather than to the Gallows.”

Shiro shivers and turns away. “I’m glad to hear it. Maker watch over you.”

He leaves, and only realizes he’s forgotten his cloak when he’s halfway home already.

*

Days pass, and Shiro is resigned both to never again seeing the little blood mage and no longer being a Seeker of Truth. Needless to say, Knight Commander Sanda was not pleased to hear he had failed in his mission, and he was demoted to Templar, albeit a Knight-Lieutenant, albeit a Knight-Lieutenant consistently assigned the most unruly mages in the Circle to deal with.

But three weeks after Shiro made what may be one of his worst or best life choices – he hasn’t yet decided – he receives a letter.

And that is how he ends up sitting on a rock beside a small river just outside Kirkwall, straightening to disbelieving attention as a slight, dark-haired figure picks his way down to the river, flanked by the male Qunari and the dwarf girl, who is now armed with a pair of sizable daggers.

“Ser Shirogane,” Hunk calls. “I see your Seeker emblem is gone.”

“It is,” Shiro says, and stands. Hunk approaches first, followed by the boy, and then the dwarf girl, whose suspicious squint does not relent. “Thank you for the letter,” he says, looking to the boy. “You look like you’ve made a full recovery.”

The boy eyes him uncertainly, though there is far less fear there than before. His arms are covered, presumably hiding the remaining scars there, and his black hair is shorter, tied back in a neat braid. His skin is no longer sallow and bruised, and though he keeps his distance, he doesn’t run or try to blast Shiro with blood magic.

“Yes,” the boy says, voice softer than Shiro expected, “thank you.”

Hunk squeezes the boy’s shoulder kindly, and in the sunlight, Shiro realizes the Qunari can’t be much older than the boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

The dwarf girl looks younger, but her rage makes it hard to tell as she stomps closer, hands on her hips. “Most of us tried to talk Keith out of meeting with you, Templar. But he’s a stubborn one. Said he owed you, which is bullshit.”

Shiro’s eyes widen and the boy, _Keith,_ ducks his head. “Oh! No, no, please do not feel you owe me anything, Keith. It is recompense enough to see you alive and well.”

The dwarf girl’s scowl grows. “I’m glad to hear that,” Keith mumbles. “For I have nothing to give, and there is no one who will reward you for...for saving my life.”

“No?” Shiro frowns. “Have you no parents, no clan you were taken from?”

Keith looks up, the set of his brow both troubled and defiant. “I am clanless,” he says. “My mother is dead for all I know, and my father was killed by templars when I was fourteen.”

Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. “I see. I am sorry for your loss.” He hesitates. “What, ah, what sort of mage was he?”

Keith’s eyes narrow, and he holds Shiro’s gaze. “A healer,” he says. “The best in all of Starkhaven.”

“I’m sure he was a good man,” Shiro offers. “How old are you now, then?”

Keith looks away. “Fifteen,” he mutters.

“He’s been living on his own for the last year,” Hunk adds. “It’s a wonder slavers didn’t nab him sooner.”

“I had help,” Keith says, and doesn’t elaborate. The back of Shiro’s neck prickles.

“Help,” Keith repeats. “Not everyone is cruel and selfish.” And he glances up at Shiro again, shuffling his feet.

“That remains to be seen,” the dwarf girl grumbles.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I really met any of you properly,” Shiro says. “Ser Takashi Shirogane, of Amaranthine in Ferelden. I was a Templar, then a Seeker of Truth...now a Templar, again.”

“Sorry,” Keith says, and digs in the leather bag slung over his shoulder, retrieving from it a crumpled heap of red fabric. “It’s, um – your cloak. I cleaned it. I think most of the blood is gone.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m Keith. Of the Free Marches, more or less.”

Shiro takes the hopelessly wrinkled cloak and offers him a smile. “Thank you, Keith. And for the record, the Seekers were pretentious pricks, so. No hard feelings.”

The dwarf girl eyes him with slightly less vitriol. “I’m Pidge, born and raised in this shite city we call Kirkwall,” she declares. “Katie Holt, but you ever call me Katie, and I’ll tear you a new one.”

“Noted,” Shiro says. “Good to meet you both. And you?”

“Hunk,” Hunk says, sticking out a massive hand. Shiro shakes it gingerly. “Tal Vashoth, also from the Free Marches – more or less.”

“Tal Vashoth?” Shiro echoes. “Your parents abandoned the Qun?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d be here if they hadn’t?” He flicks his wrist, and a small yellow flame alights in his palm. Keith watches it, and Shiro’s slight flinch, silently. “Under the Qun, I’d be a Saarebas, a ‘dangerous thing.’ Chained and collared, mouth stitched shut, and kept under constant watch. Not my idea of living, thanks.”

“So your parents left to save you?” Shiro asks quietly. Hunk nods. “They sound like good folk.”

“Ay, they are. Gave me the best life they could, though it’s rough ‘round the edges. Did mercenary work since I was thirteen, now I’m at The Hanged Man. Come by sometime and I’ll make you the best meat pies in town – for a price, of course. Not about to give away anything for free to templars.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t turn you in,” Shiro sighs. “Either of you.” He eyes Pidge. “You aren’t a mage too, are you?”

“Nah,” Pidge says. “But I’m great with poisons.”

“Most of the things she says are threats,” Keith murmurs, lips curving slightly. “You get used to it, serrah.”

“They’re treating you well, then?” Shiro asks him. “Have you got a place to stay?”

“We’re treating him better than the Circle ever would,” Pidge growls.

Hunk gives her a look. “Yes, Keith is staying with the Holts for the time being.”

“And what about your, ah, magical training?” Shiro asks Keith.

Keith blanches, and what remains unspoken draws tight in the air between them. “Shay is teaching me,” he says. “And Hunk. My father taught me, too.” He glances up, eyes a bit wild. “Ser Shirogane, I _know_ what you must think of me. But please, give me a second chance. I – I _want_ to be good, to use my magic for good. I won’t hurt anyone else. I swear it.”

“Keith,” Shiro assures at once, “I said I wouldn’t turn you in.”

“But if I hurt anyone else,” Keith says, biting his lip, “then you must.”

Pidge and Hunk look at him askance. Shiro considers him. “Very well,” he says. “But I believe you have the capacity to be good, Keith, and learn from your...mistakes. You’re young, and have time to change, and the will to do so. That’s why I brought you to Doctor Holt.”

“Swear to me,” Keith insists, “that if I ever use my magic to harm an innocent person, you will turn me in, and have the templars do what they must with me.”

“They would kill you,” Shiro says with certainty.

“Yes,” Keith says. “I know.”

“I could suggest a lighter sentence, perhaps –”

“No.” Keith stares him down. “I meant what I said. Death is better than Tranquility; better than losing my magic along with the ability to feel anything at all,” Keith says.

Shiro exhales. “Then I swear to you, Keith of the Free Marches, that if you use your magic to harm an innocent person, I will be forced to bring you to the Templar Order’s judgment.”

Keith’s shoulders slump in...relief? “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, Ser Shirogane.”

“You just asked a Templar to kill you if it came down to it?!” Pidge exclaims. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I hate templars,” Keith says, still not breaking Shiro’s gaze, “but this one saved my life, and I may have need of that again...before it’s too late.”

Keith’s talking about becoming an abomination, as so many blood mages do, tempted by the empty promises of demons who trick them into possession and turn them into monstrous, murderous beasts. Shiro has seen such creatures before, and the thought of Keith turning into one...he swallows back bile.

“You have my word, Keith,” Shiro repeats firmly. “But it will not come to that.” _I won’t let it._

“Great, well, now that you’ve made that disturbing vow, anyone in the mood for a pint or two?” Hunk interrupts.

“Always,” Pidge grunts, and eyes Shiro’s armor. “But that mess has gotta go.”

Shiro sighs, and starts unbuckling his pauldrons.

*

That is how Ser Takashi Shirogane of Amaranthine ends up drinking every week with a Tal Vashoth healer, a stabby dwarf girl, a quiet elvhen maleficar, and eventually, the chattiest, flirtiest, rudest Antivan sailor boy Shiro has ever had the misfortune of knowing.

Lance Serrano is menace, but he is also, somehow, Hunk’s best friend and Pidge’s (begrudging) acquaintance, so he drinks with them. The Antivan is apparently the best shot with a crossbow in all of Kirkwall, but the only thing Shiro has seen him shoot is pick-up lines, and he’s awful at that. Nonetheless, he frequents The Hanged Man and, according to him, The Blooming Rose, enough that people recognize him and put up with his antics.

Shiro is not one of those people and neither is Keith, whom Lance continuously tries to drag into his nightly flirting.

“Look at her,” he hisses to the elf, elbowing him and sending Keith’s ale splashing all over his hand. Shiro hands him a handkerchief automatically and Keith gives him a grateful look before reluctantly turning to eye the woman Lance is ogling.

“I’m looking?” Keith blinks at her. Shiro watches out of the corner of his eye. The woman in question is a tall blonde barmaid. Predictable.

Lance groans. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“She’s very pretty,” Keith offers, but it still sounds like more of a question than sincere commentary. Shiro’s mouth twitches.

Lance throws up his hands. “Okay, what is it, huh? Do you only like elves? Is that it?”

Keith’s confused expression shifts at once to annoyed. “No,” he grumbles. “I just don’t like you.”

Shiro snorts into his tankard.

Lance splutters. “I wasn’t talking about me!” Then he gets a glint in his eye and leans closer. Keith holds very still. “Wait. Is that it? That _is_ it, isn’t it! You just don’t like wome — _ahhh!”_

Keith has just pushed Lance off his bar stool. Hunk and Pidge, who have been distracted with a game of Wicked Grace, look up at Lance’s resounding yelp.

Chagrined, and not wishing to be the center of attention, Keith scrambles off his bar stool and towards the door. Shiro follows, because he is not about to let tipsy Keith wander through Lowtown, and because his ears are red and Shiro suspects Lance may have been, for once, correct.

Keith’s ears twitch as Shiro falls into step behind him, but he doesn’t stop him, and when they’re outside the tavern, he slumps against the dirty wall, arms folded and head ducked down, lips fixed in an undeniable pout.

Shiro leans on the wall next to him. “Don’t let Lance get to you,” he murmurs. “He just wants to get a reaction out of you.”

“I wish he would leave me alone,” Keith mutters. “What did I ever do to him?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Shiro assures, shifting closer. “Keith, that’s just how he is. And, if you ask me, he deserves to get pushed off a few more bar stools. Occasionally.”

Keith’s lips quirk. “Hm.”

“It wasn’t right of him to say what he did,” Shiro adds. “But, you know, if you _do_ prefer men —”

 _“Shiro!”_ Keith hisses, ears turning bright red again and pressing flat against his skull. Even the tip of his nose is red. It’s rather adorable.

“— then there’s nothing _wrong_ with that,” Shiro finishes firmly. Keith pauses, ears relaxing a little. “I want you to know that, alright? And if anyone tells you otherwise, don’t listen.”

Keith bites his lip. “Okay.” It’s barely a whisper. He hesitates, and, curling in on himself, mumbles, “Do you, um, I mean, that is to say, prefer. Ah.” He can’t seem to finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Shiro chuckles. Keith blinks rapidly. Shiro shrugs. “It isn’t something I hide, now. At home, yes. But not in Kirkwall. Everything and everyone here is fucked up in some way or another — how can anyone judge you for something like that, really?” He squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “Anyway. Now you know.”

Keith glances up at him, head still held low, but ears half-pricked. Shiro wishes he knew more about elvhen body language, but thinks Romelle would surely die of embarrassment if he asked.

“Do you have a, er...boy...friend?” Keith asks slowly.

Shiro laughs, startled by the question. “No, not currently. I did, sort of, in the Seekers — but, of course, I am no longer a part of that.”

Keith flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Shiro says at once, “not your fault. And I believe our relationship would have ended regardless. We had different views of the world, and the people in it.”

Keith tilts his head. “What’s your view?”

“You’ll probably think it’s foolish,” Shiro sighs, sticking his hands in his pockets and gazing up at the two moons, which loom above them like great blind owl eyes.

Keith surprises him with a soft touch to his forearm, small palm cool on his skin. “I could never think anything foolish that you believed to be true, serrah.”

Shiro peers down at him. “Oh. Thank you, Keith. I...well, I think the world is good. Of course there are bad people, like...well, like slavers, and the Tevinters who solicit their services, but...in most people, and things, I think there is good. Or at least the potential for good.”

Keith’s brow creases and he searches Shiro’s eyes with near-frantic intensity. “Why did you become a Templar, then?”

Shiro frowns. “They said we would do good. That is what they told me, as a boy.”

“They bring only ruin,” Keith says softly, hand falling away from Shiro’s arm. “My father hurt no one, you know. He saved lives. And they slaughtered him for it.”

“Your father’s death was tragic,” Shiro murmurs, “and unnecessary, if what you say is true.”

“They were not good men,” Keith adds. “They were not there to do good, and they knew it. They just wanted an excuse — to hurt, to blame, to murder. My father was their scapegoat.”

Shiro exhales. “I believe you,” he says. “And I know the sort of men you speak of...all too well.”

“I am glad,” Keith whispers, “that it was you who found me that night, and not a man like them.”

The street is quiet, and though the tavern is a dull rumble of sound behind them, with Keith beside him it is easy to focus on the other sounds — crickets and the slow howl of the wind, the fall of footsteps on cobblestones, the laughter from a far off home.

“Keith? How did you escape from those templars who killed your father?”

It is a question he has wondered about and feared the answer to since Keith told him of his father’s fate.

Keith stares down at the ground. “I hid,” he says.

“From _templars?”_

“I am very good at hiding,” Keith says. Shiro knows he will get no more out of him, and is not sure he wants to know, anyway.

“I’m glad you hid,” Shiro tells him, and Keith looks up. “I’m glad you escaped from them.”

“Me too,” Keith whispers back, and steps a little closer, until their sides brush together.

*

They manage to keep Keith hidden for a year before the templars find him.

Shiro thinks little of the call to the alienage until he sees the small, trembling elf flanked by city guards and surrounded by a crowd of nervous passerby. Shiro stumbles, stomach dropping like a stone, and the other Templar in his patrol steadies him.

“Shirogane? You’ve gone pale.” Sablan, another Knight-Lieutenant who has been in the Order far longer than Shiro and whom Shiro is certain not-so-secretly resents him for attaining the same rank despite his far younger age, peers down at him with a gaze more suspicious than concerned.

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, brushing him off and starting towards Keith, who blanches at the sight of him, pupils reduced to terrified pinpricks. Shiro takes quick stock of the situation – a human merchant is speaking to the guards with violent hand gestures which only serve to make Keith shrink further in on himself, and his hands have been bound tight behind his back, much to Shiro’s dismay – and, if he’s being honest, disgust.

There is no sign of blood on Keith’s clothing or skin, nor on the merchant, so that is a small mercy.

“What’s going on here?” Shiro demands, folding his arms and avoiding eye contact with Keith, who has wisely decided to keep his mouth shut.

The merchant turns eagerly to him. “This apostate brat was trying to steal from me! I caught him trying to make off with one of my fine knives, and when I grabbed him to stop him, he burnt my hand! Look!” The man holds up his right hand, and sure enough, his entire palm is seared an angry red.

“It was lucky we were nearby, Ser,” one of the city guards adds. “The elf took off running, but he didn’t get far.” He nods to the other guard. “He electrocuted Jeven, here – clearly, he has had magic instruction outside of the Circle, and is a serious threat.”

“Either way, he’s a criminal!” the merchant snaps.

Keith opens his mouth to protest, but Shiro steps closer, eyes narrowing, and grabs his jaw before he can say a word. Keith’s throat bobs in a swallow, searching Shiro’s gaze with naked desperation. Shiro does not return it, keeping his expression cold and calm, with great effort. It’s physically painful to see Keith like this, but really – they should have gotten him out of the city months ago. It’s a wonder he made it this long undetected.

“Is this true, mage?” Shiro asks, forcing Keith to look up. “Did you steal from this man, and use magic on him?”

Keith hesitates. Shiro tightens his grip and Keith’s eyes dart to the side, then back to Shiro. He’s shaking. “Yes,” he finally whispers.

“What was that?” Shiro warns.

“Yes, serrah,” Keith says, louder. “It...it’s true.”

“Are you an apostate?” Shiro asks.

Keith bites his lip. “Yes. Serrah.”

“Shirogane, let’s just have him hanged and be done with it,” Sablan grumbles. “This man is upset, and he harmed a city guard – the path to justice seems clear enough.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “How old are you?” Shiro asks, ignoring Sablan.

“Sixteen,” Keith says, and in a rush adds, “please, don’t –”

“Quiet.” Shiro eyes him, his mind working furiously. He will _not_ allow Keith to be _hanged,_ not after everything. He refuses to even consider the possibility. “Sablan,” he says, “don’t we have an open apprentice dormitory in the Circle?”

Keith starts to shake again. “Yes,” Sablan grunts, reluctantly. “Suppose we do. Why, you think this one would be any good as a Circle mage?”

“Perhaps,” Shiro muses, leaning closer, “with proper guidance.”

Keith barely breathes as Shiro scrutinizes him.

“Well?” Shiro asks. “What’ll it be? Death or the Circle?”

Keith’s despair is palpable, but his jaw clenches under the spread of Shiro’s gloved fingers. He is silent.

Sablan huffs. “He’s made his choice, Shirogane. Chain him up –”

Shiro leans close, as close as he dares, and whispers beside Keith’s stiff, pointed ear, “It will be alright. I promise. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Keith relaxes imperceptibly in his grasp. “The Circle,” he blurts, and immediately looks like he regrets it, but the deed is done.

Shiro steps back. “You heard him,” he says. “Thank you, guards, for bringing this to our attention. This boy is under the jurisdiction of the Templar Order and the Kirkwall Circle, now.”

Sablan glares at him the whole way back to the Circle, and shoves Keith roughly once or twice, but Shiro makes sure he never falls, and eventually the other Templar gives up. He likely sees how frightened Keith is already – the Gallows are not a welcoming place.

The courtyard is filled with ghastly statues of tortured slaves from the city’s Tevinter origins, their bronze faces contorted in unimaginable agony. Shiro often wonders why Knight-Commander Sanda never removes them, though in his heart, he knows the answer all too well. They are meant to strike fear into the hearts of every mage who passes through these gates, much as they were meant to terrify the slaves who once arrived in droves at the Kirkwall docks nearby.

“Why do you want this damn Dalish kid, anyway?” Sablan mutters as they climb the impressive set of steps up to the massive Gallows gates. Keith stares up at the looming stone edifice, and Shiro prays fervently to Andraste, to the Maker, to the Divine, whoever may be listening, that his promise to Keith will remain unbroken.

“I think he has potential,” Shiro retorts. “He could become a powerful asset. You never know.”

“He was stealing a knife,” Sablan says. “That doesn’t ring any alarm bells for you?”

“He’s resourceful,” Shiro says. “He can take care of himself. Those are valuable qualities.”

“Just admit you think he’s a pretty piece of meat,” Sablan says, and Shiro stops walking.

Keith stares very hard at the ground. “What,” Shiro grits out, “did you say to me, Knight-Lieutenant?”

“Everyone knows you’re soft on the apprentices,” Sablan says, “a little _too_ soft, if you ask me.”

“I don’t think I asked _you_ anything,” Shiro growls, and Sablan finally seems to realize he’s made a mistake. “Just because your hair is graying, Sablan, does _not_ mean you may speak to me like that. We are equal in rank, and may I remind you, only one of us has ever been awarded the honor of Seeker status. It is quite possible that I could be given such status again, and believe me, if I do, I will have you removed from the Order if you ever, and I mean _ever,_ speak to me or of me – or of the apprentices, for that matter – in such a vile manner again. Is that _clear_ to you, Knight-Lieutenant Sablan?”

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” Sablan starts, and then yelps, leaping away from Keith. There’s a blistering burn mark on his forearm where it brushed against Keith’s side, and when Shiro looks, Keith’s head is still down, but his lips are smugly quirked. “Maker’s Blood, what the – _how –!”_

“You seem to have touched _something_ you shouldn’t have,” Shiro retorts, and Keith’s smirk widens. “I think you ought to go to the infirmary straight away. Before your wound worsens.”

Sablan fumes, but casts a distinctly wary glance at Keith before hurrying ahead of them, turning a corner away from the main Circle entry to the Templar sections.

Once he’s gone, they both relax, though Shiro knows Keith’s trials here are only beginning.

“Thank you,” Shiro says quietly. “I’m sorry you had to hear such ugly implications.”

Keith hums. “I know they aren’t true,” he says. “I have chosen to trust you, serrah.” He exhales. “Please don’t make me regret that.”

“I meant what I said,” Shiro murmurs. “I will do all that is within my power to keep you safe here.”

“To escape, you mean.”

Shiro shakes his head. “No. There is no escaping the Circle.”

Keith falters. “What? But, you said –”

“I will do what I can,” Shiro sighs. “That is all I can promise, Keith, but it is a promise not made lightly. Know this, if nothing else.”

Keith is silent. They continue up the steps. The portcullis opens for them as they approach like a hungry maw. Shiro holds his head high though he has never felt so full of dread as he does then, bringing Keith into the belly of the beast known as Kirkwall’s Circle of Magi.

“How did you burn Sablan?” Shiro asks suddenly before they cross the threshold. “Your hands are bound...”

“What, are you going to torture the answer out of me?” Keith mumbles.

Shiro sighs. “Just...behave,” he mutters. “Please. Or even I might not be able to save you.”

Keith shivers and nods. Shiro can only guess at what Hunk, Pidge, and Lance have told him of the horrors that await him in these walls. Shiro wishes they were simply lies and fearmongering, but he is beginning to realize they are far closer to the truth than they should be.

“I will. I will, Shiro. I promise.”

The portcullis grinds shut behind them.

*

Keith, miraculously, does behave – more or less.

His loathing and distrust of templars is practically innate, so that does pose a problem or two, but the entire Circle quickly learns that while Keith’s general approach to every hapless templar who tries to order him about is sullen defiance, the one exception is Shiro.

When Shiro first brought him into the Circle and explained the situation to a skeptical Knight-Commander Sanda, Keith remained quiet and demure, answering all her harsh questions with remarkable politeness, and vowing to uphold all Circle laws without complaint. Apparently satisfied, she finally sent them off to meet First Enchanter Honerva.

As is required for all new apprentices, Keith had to surrender several drops of his blood to her, to be kept in a phylactery as a safeguard should he try to escape – templars can track anyone, mage or otherwise, through their blood. Shiro had not realized how sinister this practice was until Keith had to be restrained by three templars while First Enchanter Honerva made a neat incision in his palm with the lancet, said the memorized spell, and bottled up his blood to join the hundreds of other phylacteries in their dusty cases. The churning blood glowed in Keith’s presence once the spell was done, as all phylacteries do when their owners are nearby.

First Enchanter Honerva went about her business with perfect composure, unbothered by Keith’s struggling, though her eyebrows did lift when Shiro ordered the templars to release him, and Keith at once became still and pliant under Shiro’s, and only Shiro’s, orders.

“He obeys you,” Honerva observed, her pale eyes narrowed at them. The elven woman has always unnerved Shiro for a reason he can never quite put his finger on. “You were the one who found and arrested him?”

Shiro nodded. “Sablan wanted him to be hanged for a petty theft. I argued he would be better off here.”

“It seems you won that argument.” Honerva studied Keith for a few moments. “He is lucky you were there. Don’t you think so, boy?”

“I know I was lucky,” Keith whispered, glancing up at Shiro, then back at the floor, clutching his pricked finger to his chest.

Needless to say, it did not take long for the gossip to begin, after that.

Shiro is uncertain whether to be mortified or flattered by Keith keeping his promise of obedience to Shiro and only to Shiro, but Maker knows it does nothing to quell the rumors that certain templars like Sablan spread about his peculiar relationship with the elf.

And not only are such rumors terrible, they are truly dangerous. Mages within the Circle are discouraged from any romantic relationships with each other, though of course it happens anyway. But romance between mages and templars? It is explicitly forbidden, and when it _does_ happen, well. It could hardly be classified as romance. There is a marked inequality between the two positions, to say the least.

First Enchanter Honerva apparently has no desire to dissuade anyone from believing what they will about Ser Shirogane and Apprentice Keith, however, for she rather publicly moves Shiro’s official living quarters from the Templar Hall in the west wing of the Gallows to the east wing senior templar dormitories, which are a courtyard away from the apprentices’ dormitories.

Shiro weathers this as gracefully as he can. He is unsure if Keith is actually oblivious to the Templar gossip – he may well be – or just ignores it, but regardless, his behavior towards Shiro does not change. He always greets Shiro with some degree of enthusiasm, treats him with the utmost respect, requests Shiro when he must be escorted to and from the library or the courtyards, and does not defy Shiro unless he is in a bad mood. Even then, he always relents in the end.

And in all honesty, how can Shiro blame Keith for clinging to him as much as he is able? Circle mages are not allowed visits from outsiders. Pidge, Hunk, and Lance write Keith many letters as the months drag on, but Shiro knows it is not the same. He has not visited The Hanged Man since Keith’s arrest – he doubts he would be well-received. They would blame him for Keith’s being here...and they would not be incorrect. But Shiro maintains it is better than hanging, and Keith seems to agree.

He does well in his classes; so well, in fact, that it plants a seed of jealousy among the other apprentices. Again, Keith appears oblivious to this, and instead tells Shiro about what they are learning with genuine excitement that Shiro is always sorry to stifle. Mages must not be _too_ eager to learn spells, but Keith does not understand this when Shiro tries to explain it to him.

“Why not?” Keith asks, shaking his head emphatically. “Magic is fascinating, and it can be used for so much good –”

“Not so loud, Keith,” Shiro scolds, gesturing to the quiet library around them. He lowers his voice. “You of all people ought to know how cruel magic’s uses can be.”

Keith looks down, cowed. “I didn’t mean like that,” he mumbles. “I just...want to learn. More.”

“Keith, you know the Circle’s teachings are limited for a reason –”

“Yes, I know,” Keith sighs, slumping back in his chair. “And I understand why. But...my father had so many other books. I miss those books.”

Shiro hesitates, knowing he should crush this train of thought immediately.

He doesn’t. “What sort of books did your father have?” he murmurs.

Keith looks up, eyes bright, and smiles slow and secretive. “Good ones,” he says. “There were lots about the Fade.”

Shiro frowns. “About demons?”

Keith frowns right back. “No, they were more about spirits, actually. Do you honestly think the Fade is just filled to the brim with demons?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” Keith says, and rolls his eyes. Shiro huffs at him. Keith does it again. “There are many other beings in the Fade besides demons. Spirits, ghosts, gods, dreamers – anything you can imagine, really.”

Shiro considers this. “Do you visit the Fade?” he asks. “When you dream, I mean.”

“Of course,” Keith says. “All mages do.” He squints. “Why, is that breaking another Circle rule?”

“No, no,” Shiro sighs, “we cannot very well control how you dream.”

“But I bet you’d like to try,” Keith grumbles. Shiro gives him a look, but does not deny it. Sadly, he cannot.

“What is the Fade like, then?” Shiro adds. “Is it not terrifying and strange?”

“Oh, it is,” Keith chuckles. “But...oh, I don’t know. There’s something sort of comforting about it. Everything there is magic, after all. It’s like…” He chews his lip, lost in thought. “Hmm. It’s a bit like...like being with someone who understands you and accepts you so fully, so completely, that every moment spent with them feels like the most well-spent time in the world.”

His voice has fallen into a soft, slow drawl, and his eyes are half-lidded in thought. And as Keith sits at the library table, leaning his chin in his hand, streaked with the faint sunlight streaming in through the barred windows, Shiro has a sneaking suspicion he is not speaking only of the Fade.

Shiro clears his throat. “I see. That sounds...like a peaceful experience.”

Keith shakes himself a little, and nods. “Yes. It is. I wish you could see the Fade, Shiro – I, I mean, serrah. Er.” He scratches the back of his neck, face flushed. “Sorry.”

“Can you describe it to me?” Shiro asks, ignoring the slip in formalities, and focusing instead on the way the light frames Keith’s narrow jaw, and dips the tips of his dark lashes in warm gold. “What does the Fade look like in your dreams?”

Unexpectedly, Keith’s flush deepens, and he coughs into his fist. “Uh,” he says. “It’s…”

“You needn’t tell me if it is too personal,” Shiro adds hastily, “I only thought maybe you wished to –”

Keith lifts a hand. Shiro stops rambling. “It is alright,” he says, and offers Shiro a smile, so Shiro knows he isn’t just saying that. “For me, the Fade often takes on the form of a lavish palace. Everything is bright and lovely, with great marble columns and stone statues – not like the awful statues in the Gallows, but beautiful women, and men, and creatures I have never seen before, but wish I had.” His ears are drooping, not in sorrow, but in a kind of distracted reverie, a daydream. “And outside, through the tall windows, I can see the real Fade, with jagged green peaks of flickering crystal and noxious gray fog and pale emerald light that comes from no sun I can find...but in the palace, I am safe from that place.”

Shiro cannot deny Keith’s Fade palace sounds like a fine place indeed, but unease prickles over his skin nonetheless. “But you know this palace isn’t real,” Shiro cautions, “right?”

“Of course not.” Keith shrugs. “But is any dream real? It’s real enough when it’s happening, when I’m there, with –” He stops. “When I’m there, it is easy to forget I am dreaming. It all looks and feels real, and it is always hard to leave.”

“With,” Shiro repeats. “You...are not alone in this palace?”

Keith furrows his brow. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes, I am certain there is someone else, but – don’t look at me like that. It isn’t like that, serrah. The other presence is not...it wouldn’t hurt me, not in the palace. I know that.”

“How? How could you possibly know that?” Shiro presses, worry bubbling up in his chest.

Keith closes his book. “I should not have told you of this,” he mutters. “You could not possibly understand.”

“Try me.”

But Keith shakes his head. “There is nothing more to say.”

And for the first time since Shiro met him, he is absolutely certain that Keith is lying to him.

*

The day after Keith turns seventeen, one of the apprentices turns into an abomination.

Shiro barely knew the girl, but Keith tells him later that she was an excellent student, and answered every question she was asked correctly, and was kind to everyone, albeit a bit sad.

The demon who she allowed to possess her was a despair demon. Its shrieks and howls echo through the apprentices’ dormitories long after Shiro and the other templars on patrol have killed it, and the girl. Her name was Catarina.

They find a book on demon summoning in her room, and the apprentices’ freedom is significantly limited for the following three months in an attempt to prevent another incident. The apprentices are confined to their dormitories for most of the day, and there are no more escapades to the library, or conversations about the Fade. Shiro speaks little to Keith, and Keith, who is as shaken by the experience as all the other apprentices, is even quieter than usual.

Shiro has a reputation among the apprentices, he has learned over the years, as a rather aloof man; kind but distant. It is also common knowledge he was once a Seeker, which is the only thing more terrifying to Circle mages than a Templar. So it is a surprise when an apprentice other than Keith approaches Shiro as he is making his rounds one afternoon.

The apprentice is named James Griffin, and he is Keith’s roommate, last Shiro checked. He blinks down at the boy, who shifts nervously and avoids eye contact. “Yes, Apprentice Griffin? May I help you?”

“Apologies, serrah,” Griffin mumbles, “but – I need to speak to you. About...about Apprentice Keith, serrah.”

“We are speaking,” Shiro says, eyes narrowing. He glances to the mess hall, where the other apprentices are eating quietly, Keith among them, watched over by a frankly absurd amount of templars.

“In private,” Griffin whispers. “Please?”

Shiro sighs, and grabs his shoulder, nudging him along towards an alcove not too far from the mess hall, but out of earshot. “Alright. What is it, apprentice? Has Keith done something wrong?”

“I – I don’t know,” Griffin admits. “He…” He swallows. “He talks in his sleep. A lot.”

It is as if someone has poured a bucket of cold water down Shiro’s spine. “I see,” he says slowly. “What manner of things does he say?”

Griffin hesitates. “I...I can’t be sure, but, well, it sounds like he’s. Talking to someone. Pleading with them, sometimes.”

“Could it not be a simple case of sleep talking?” Shiro asks, and maybe he is pleading a little then, too.

“If I thought it were,” Griffin says, “I wouldn’t have told you, serrah. I – I’m just afraid that –”

“Yes, I understand.” Shiro cuts him off; he cannot bear to hear the words the apprentice means to say, not about Keith. “Tell no one of this. Does anyone else know?” Griffin shakes his head at once. “Good. Myself and the other templars will look into it, apprentice. Thank you for informing me. Now, go finish your meal.”

Griffin scampers off. Shiro slumps against the wall, heart pounding, and prays he is wrong.

*

Not a week later, Keith gets into a fight.

It is not his first fight, nor his last, but it is his worst thus far. Tensions are high among the apprentices, and so they let it out on each other, particularly on the ones they are jealous of, and the ones who they fear.

That is how Keith ends up with a nose dripping blood, a spectacular black eye, a split lip, and too many bruises to count. The other three apprentices, somehow, end up with a broken rib, a missing tooth, and a sprained wrist, but out of the four of them, Keith looks to have gotten the worst of the damage.

One of the apprentices who fought him was Griffin. Shiro does not spare a look for him when he fetches Keith from the infirmary, and the apprentice visibly wilts. Shiro does not care; he knows who provoked the fight, and it was not, despite what the other apprentices argue, Keith.

Shiro likes killing two birds with one stone, and considering he is loathe to let Keith sleep near any of the boys who beat him to near-unconsciousness, it is an easy choice to bring Keith back to his dormitory instead.

Keith, still woozy from the tonics they gave him, eyes his new surroundings in open bewilderment. It is only when he sees the large (in comparison to the apprentices’ cots, anyway) bed laden with thick red and gold blankets and pillows that he stops in his tracks, eyes widening. He looks at Shiro with something like accusation. “This is your room.”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “You may stay here until you’ve healed enough to return to your room.”

“I’m healed enough now,” Keith argues, only to cough on the last word, stagger, and double over with a wince and a ragged gasp. Shiro fusses over him, and Keith lets Shiro lead him over to the edge of the bed, where he sits gingerly, watching with dazed eyes as Shiro brings over a mug of water and some more tonic for the pain.

Once he’s drunk the water and the tonic, Keith mutters, “I don’t think this is allowed, serrah.”

Shiro shrugs. “If they were going to stop me, they would have on the way over.”

Keith’s gaze is guarded. “Oh.” He licks his lips. “Make a habit of bringing apprentices here, then?”

Shiro eyes him reproachfully. “You know I don’t, and would never. I hope you know that, anyway.”

Keith looks away. His jaw has widened, sharpened, Shiro thinks vaguely. It has, somehow, an even more stubborn set to it than before. “Others do,” he mutters. Shiro nearly drops the water mug. “Lots of others do.”

Shiro stares. _“Who?”_ he demands. “Keith, who has –”

Keith blinks, lips parting. “You didn’t know?”

“I had some inkling, a suspicion, but,” Shiro takes a step back, and sets down the mug hard. “No, Keith. I did not know. Is that what you thought I – no. Do you want to leave? You can leave, I just thought you would be –”

“Safer here,” Keith finishes, his lips curling, though not in a mocking way.

“Yes,” Shiro whispers, and starts forward again, unsure what to do with his hands. “Keith...has anyone, any of the templars you speak of, have they...hurt you? I…”

To his utter relief, Keith shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “I think they’re afraid of you.”

“Good,” Shiro growls without meaning to, “they should be.”

Keith grins. “Heh.” Then he flops down onto Shiro’s bed, staring at the canopy. “No wonder you became a templar. This is...hmm. Nice. Soft.” He rubs his bruised face on the quilt.

Oh, Maker, he really is out of it. Shiro hopes he doesn’t have any head injuries.

“It is nice,” Shiro admits, “and you are welcome to it –” Keith snorts and Shiro splutters at him, face hot as he realizes exactly why Keith is snickering at him. “You _know_ what I mean! Ugh. How is it that you become _more_ of a brat the older you get?”

“It’s a gift.” Keith yawns.

Shiro heaves a sigh. “And a curse for me. Well, then, get some rest. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Keith cracks an eye open. “I thought you wanted names.”

“Names?”

“Of your fellow templars,” Keith drawls, “the ones who aren’t half so good at keeping their promises to us mages as you are, my noble Ser Shirogane.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.” Shiro plucks a piece of parchment and a quill from his desk and sits in the chair, waiting patiently.

“I may fall asleep before I say them all,” Keith mumbles, “but, let’s see...first, there’s Alrik, he’s the worst of them, and thinks he can get away with anything because he’s a Knight-Corporal, but you’re a rank higher than he is, so maybe, just _maybe_ you could give that sadistic bastard what he deserves…”

*

It is a long list, and Shiro is horrified by the many names he recognizes on it, but he is comforted by the sight of Keith slipping peacefully into slumber when he has finished speaking. He did not bother to climb under the covers, so instead lies curled atop them like a cat, ears twitching in his sleep. Shiro is hopelessly endeared, and tiptoes around the room so as not to wake him, readying himself for bed and making a sort of makeshift cot for himself in the corner of the room.

There is quite a lot of room on the bed, but Shiro has a vivid fear of ending up in some kind of compromising position come morning, and would never wish to impose upon Keith’s space like that, anyway. Keith trusted him enough to stay here, to tell Shiro the names, to fall asleep on his bed afterwards, and Shiro will not betray that trust.

But he will lay awake and listen as Keith begins to speak in his sleep.

His speaking is not very loud, but when Shiro focuses on hearing meaning in the slurred syllables, troubling sentences string themselves together...and they do, indeed, sound very much like conversation. With who, or what, Shiro isn’t certain.

“Not tonight,” Keith mumbles, turning his face further into the quilt and muffling his words further. “Mmf...yes...I know...no, he isn’t. Stop...I said…’m fine... _yes.”_

Shiro sits up, and peers into the gloom. “Keith?”

But Keith just keeps talking; he is not here, and does not hear Shiro. _“Shh_ ...he’s sleeping...leave me alone...you _know_ what I mean…”

It continues on like this, for just long enough that Shiro does not sleep, even when Keith is quiet and still once more, because one of the last things Keith said was, _“Yes...I told him about your palace...no. He doesn’t know…”_

*

Shiro tells no one. He does tell Knight-Commander Sanda about the list. When she asks him who he got it from, he tells her he’s been doing his own investigations. She takes the list, studies it with pursed lips, and drops it neatly into the fireplace.

 _“Commander,”_ Shiro says, shocked.

“What would you have me do? Remove all of those men?” She shakes her head. “There are far too many, and we need as many templars as we can get. Besides, some of them are among our best, Shirogane.”

“They are _not_ our best if they are abusing the mages we are meant to _protect –”_

She stands, gripping the edge of her desk. “Is that what you think our purpose here is, Shirogane? Hm. Maybe you have forgotten. Has your little charity case twisted your values so much that you have forgotten the danger of magic, and those who practice it?” Sanda sneers, and Shiro does not reply, hands curling into fists under the table. “Shirogane, this Circle is built in the Gallows, in a _prison,_ for a reason. These mages are not to leave; they are threats to the outside world, to the public who, like you and I, have no magic. But you and I, Shirogane, are in a unique position. We are the ones who stand between the outside world and mages. We were trained specifically to counter and dispel their magic, to deny the power of the Fade which so corrupts them. No other beings can do what we can, Shirogane. Our role is not to protect, it is to defend and to _contain._ Do you understand?”

“I take issue,” Shiro manages, “with the way you refer to Apprentice Keith. He is one of the best in his class, and –”

“And you think that is a good thing?” Sanda demands, and shakes her head. “No, Shirogane. A powerful mage is just an even greater threat to us and to the world. Learn from our history – or it will repeat itself. I think you were a fool to bring him here, and an even greater fool to trust a word he says. Mages are clever things, and they will go to any lengths to trick us. We must not let it reach that point.”

“Keith is honest –”

“Is he?” Sanda folds her arms. “How much do you know about him, really? About his family, about his origins, about his magic?”

Shiro closes his mouth, troubled.

Sanda steeples her hands together. “I have decided that Keith’s Harrowing will be tomorrow night.”

Shiro freezes. He must have misheard. “Excuse me?”

“His Harrowing will be tomorrow night,” Sanda repeats, “and I have chosen you as his designated slayer, should the need arise.”

 _“No,”_ Shiro whispers.

Her eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“I – Commander, he isn’t even eighteen yet, how can you –”

“I am the Knight-Commander of this Circle,” Sanda retorts. “I can do as I like.”

“But…” Shiro’s jaw works. “Are you punishing me, Commander?”

“For fraternizing with the mageling? I suppose. But do not think of this as a punishment, Shirogane. It is an honor to have your position. Should the Harrowing go wrong, should Apprentice Keith fail to resist the temptation of the demon we summon for him in the Fade...then you will be the one to deal the killing blow. It seems only right, don’t you think?”

“And...and if I cannot do it?” Shiro whispers.

Sanda tilts her head. “Why are you so certain he will fail?”

Shiro stands. “I’m not. I’m not certain of anything, Commander. May I be dismissed?”

She pauses. “Yes.” As he turns to go, she adds, “Oh, and, Shirogane? If you breathe a word of this to the apprentice before the ceremony, I will have you removed from the Order by dawn.”

“Understood, Commander,” Shiro says dully, and leaves.

*

Keith has since moved back into his usual quarters, but of course Shiro is also chosen to be one of the templars who wakes him in the middle of the night, and drags him through the halls to the site of his Harrowing. Keith is no fool, and understands as soon as the sleep clears from his eyes what is happening. He tries to get Shiro to meet his gaze, but Shiro cannot. Not when this night may very well end with Keith dead by his hand.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” Sanda begins. Shiro barely hears her as she continues reciting the rites. He has eyes only for Keith, who walks as if in a trance to the pedestal in the center of the small, circular room. Its shallow basin is filled to the brim with silver luminescence – raw lyrium. The substance is deadly to mages in large doses, but now Keith reaches out, as Sanda orders him to, and dips his fingertips into the glowing pool.

There is a burst of light, and then Keith crumples to the stone floor, motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He is in the Fade, now, alone.

Sanda stands grimly before him, and nods to Shiro. “And now,” she announces, “we wait.”

Waiting is torture. Shiro cannot tell if it is seconds that drag by, or minutes, or hours.

“What demon did you summon for him?” he asks in the pregnant silence. The several other templars present look at him askance, but Sanda does not bat an eyelash.

“A desire demon,” she says.

Shiro grips his sword hilt with a vengeance. _“No,”_ he whispers. “Those are…”

“Among the most powerful of all demons,” Sanda says, “yes.”

Shiro stares at Keith’s fallen form. He wonders, distantly, when Keith got so beautiful. Maybe he has been since the start, but of course it is only now, now when Keith is on the cusp of death, that Shiro finally notices...or perhaps allows himself to notice.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sanda sighs. “He is a powerful mage. It is only fair he deal with a powerful demon.”

“It is _not_ fair,” Shiro says, barely a whisper. “Many of even the most experienced mages are unable to resist a desire demon’s temptation.”

“Then let us hope he fares better. Now hush.”

They stand in silence again. Keith does not rise, but his eyelids move rapidly, back and forth, back and forth.

“Enough time has passed,” one of the templars says as moonlight fills the chamber completely. “Let’s be done with it.”

First Enchanter Honerva, who stands near the Knight-Commander and has said nothing for the ritual’s duration, murmurs, “The Fade can be disorienting. Give him more time.”

Sanda frowns. “Fine. But not much more.”

“This is not a timed ritual,” Shiro warns. “We will wait the entire night if we must.”

“No,” Sanda says. “We will not.”

Shiro stays where he is. Sanda says, “I have a sword as well. Do not make me use it.”

“Just a little more time,” Shiro says. “I will do it, but only once he has been given a fair chance. Is it not said that desire demons like to talk? Perhaps they are talking.”

“If they are talking, then it is already too late,” Honerva murmurs.

Sanda’s eyes glint in satisfaction. “There you have it. Shirogane, now. I declare this Harrowing a failure, and order you, Ser Shirogane, to end it at once.”

Shiro steps forward; his feet do not feel like his own. Keith lays at his feet, small and still, and he recalls, unbidden, how Keith looked curled up just like this on his bed, vulnerable, trusting; but this time, Shiro is forced to play the part of traitor. He lifts his sword.

Keith’s eyes snap open, and he gasps in a lungful of air, scrambling up...before he notices Shiro’s shaking sword and flinches back, disbelieving and, yes, betrayed. “Shiro,” he whispers. Shiro steps away. Keith looks around wildly, voice breaking. “But...I passed the test, I…”

“Yes,” Sanda says, her voice cold, “you did. Congratulations, Keith, you have proved your strength of will and command over your magic, and thus you are now a full member of the Circle of Magi.”

One of the templars gives Keith his customary ring, of lyrium-infused silver, and he barely notices. He looks at Shiro, haunted. “You were going to kill me,” he whispers. “You…”

“Get him back to bed,” Sanda says. “Someone who isn’t Shirogane, please.”

Keith shuffles off, his shoulders slumped and head low. His ears are limp. He does not protest and he does not bargain. He just obeys.

Shiro looks at Sanda. “Are you happy?”

“That is not the word I would use.” She turns to Honerva, whose palms glow softly, and whose eyes are squeezed shut in concentration as she, too, accesses the Fade, albeit in a far less violent fashion. “Well? What became of the demon?”

Honerva gasps, and opens her eyes, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. Shiro has never seen such panic on her face before, and likely neither has Sanda, for they both lean forward in concern. “What? What is it?”

“The demon is dead,” Honerva breathes. “Utterly destroyed.”

“That is not possible,” Sanda says flatly. “Look again.”

Honerva does not. “There is no mistaking it,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “The desire demon was ripped to pieces, and those pieces were ripped to pieces. Perhaps you should have chosen an even more powerful foe for him, hm?”

“Can an apprentice do that?” Sanda demands. “Destroy a desire demon in the Fade?”

 _“Someone_ did that,” Honerva replies. “Or something.”

Shiro shivers.

*

Keith avoids Shiro as best as he can. This proves to be easy, now that Keith is no longer an apprentice, and Shiro’s dormitory remains in the east wing.

Shiro makes no attempts to reconnect. Keith deserves other friends, better friends than him, if what they were could ever truly be called friends. Is Shiro not his captor, after all? How could such a relationship end in anything but hurt?

Shiro redirects his attention to the remaining apprentices. He focuses on his duties, his vows, and he thinks of Catarina, and her memory guides him to keep a close watch on the apprentices to ensure the past does not repeat itself.

He begins to notice some oddities. Their names are Luka and Merla and they are inseparable. Shiro swears they’re always whispering about something, and glancing furtively about. Shiro is unable to catch them actually breaking any rules, however, so he keeps quiet about it.

Shiro’s twenty-fourth and Keith’s eighteenth birthday pass without fanfare. The only time Shiro sees him is in the library, where he keeps to himself and walks in the opposite direction whenever Shiro dares to approach. Keith’s hair has gotten long, and he keeps it in an untidy braid down his back, which sways like a dark pendulum as he walks.

Keith is a beautiful, intelligent, full-fledged mage, and his resentment for Shiro and every other Templar in the Kirkwall Circle simmers in the air around him like a heat wave. He does not keep it a secret – Shiro doubts he would be able to keep such loathing entirely hidden – but he does not act on it. Not yet, anyway.

Even as Shiro avoids Keith, he keeps a wary eye on the other templars, at least as best as he can. But too many of them have been predatory for long enough that they have gotten good at it, and therefore difficult to catch. Still, Shiro tries.

Remembering that Keith said the other templars stayed away from him because they feared Shiro, he uses this to keep the other apprentices from harm. The other templars on patrol around the apprentices quickly learn that any leering, pawing, threatening, or otherwise inappropriate behavior towards the apprentices will bring the ire of Ser Shirogane down upon them – they will be assigned the worst patrol shifts, given mattresses infested with lice, and mysteriously lose their lyrium supplies, only for them to reappear once they start behaving.

The apprentices are smart, and Shiro is certain they understand what he is doing. The apprentices who find themselves stranded alone in the library ask him to escort them back to their dormitories before any of the other templars. They are more at ease when Shiro is in the room supervising. And, a few times, they come to him with names, whispered in shame or scribbled on pieces of parchment. They are names Shiro knows; men he sups with and men he is expected to call his brothers in arms.

Shiro does not know what to do when he receives the first of these names. He knows his position as a Templar, much less as a Knight-Lieutenant, is tenuous at best. Sanda does not like him, and she would likely leap at any excuse to have him removed from the Circle. Shiro cannot allow that to happen – as soon as he left, the apprentices would be vulnerable all over again.

But they trusted him with these names, so he must do _something._

Shiro is not sure why he slips the pieces of parchment under Keith’s door in the adult dormitories wing. He does not know what else to do with them...but he also knows they will not go to waste in Keith’s hands.

What he does not expect is for the first of the names, the man named Alrik, to be found brutally murdered on the mess hall table the following morning.

The Circle is thrown into a state of emergency. Mages are confined to their rooms, which Shiro has begun to think of more as cells, and the templars are on high alert, searching for evidence and signs of magical interference at every turn. They can find nothing, except to conclude that it seems unlikely any human could have killed Alrik. His wounds are far too savage, throat slashed open as if by claws – but only after his eyes were gouged out, his entrails yanked out of his body cavity, and his hands chopped clean off.

Shiro cannot stay to look, because he knows who must have done it, and he braces himself against the cold stone wall, breathing hard, Sanda’s words echoing in his head – _How much do you know about him, really?_

Shiro did not know Keith was capable of this.

He expects the next three murders, each as violent as Alrik’s, spread out over the course of several weeks. He does not expect the apprentices to start avoiding him, or at least looking upon him with more fear than hope. Shiro tries to speak with some of the younger ones, who once clung closest to him, but they shy away from him. They still recognize they are safer when Shiro is there, but they keep their distance, as much distance as they dare.

The fifth murder is a surprise, for this Templar does not work with the apprentices – he works with the adults. Shiro stares at his limp corpse strung up between two stone columns, blood dripping from the stump of his neck and onto his severed head, which is set neatly below him.

It is strange, Shiro thinks dazedly, that there is no obvious modus operandi at play. All of the murders are violent, but different – as if whoever did this had little in mind except to make the victim suffer as much as possible, then display them like a gory trophy afterwards.

Knight-Commander Sanda, of course, thinks the mages are to blame. She may for once be right, but Shiro won’t tell her. He agonizes over this decision for days, but in the end, decides he was an accomplice – he gave Keith the names, after all. And the killings were vicious, yes, but also justified, in Shiro’s opinion. The poor apprentices are terrified, but at least those men are gone.

This is what Shiro tells himself, at least, until Keith appears at his door in the dead of night, elf eyes glowing an eerie violet.

“Shiro,” Keith says. His voice is hollow and unfamiliar.

Shiro stands on the threshold, heart pounding. _“Keith._ What are you – you shouldn’t be here.”

“No?” Keith steps forward, unblinking, his mouth set in an almost-smile. “Why not? Are you _afraid_ of me, Takashi?”

Shiro takes a step back. The door thuds shut behind Keith. Keith keeps advancing, slow but menacing. “Why are you here?” he asks quietly.

Keith pauses and tilts his head. “You gave me those names, so you know I killed those templars,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one who knows.”

Shiro exhales. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Keith’s sneer is wicked. “Are you saying I should trust a _Templar?”_ He laughs, and then stops abruptly, and starts forward again, eyes narrowing. “Give me one good reason not to kill you, Ser Shirogane.”

“I’m protecting the apprentices,” he starts.

Keith just laughs at him, voice singsong when he says, “Protecting them? No, _I’m_ protecting them. You’re just playing babysitter.”

Shiro holds his gaze. Keith doesn’t move, just watches him, lips quirked and eyes alight.

“You’re not Keith,” Shiro whispers at last.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Keith snarls and lunges for him, and Shiro barely dodges, calling to his hands a powerful Cleanse which knocks Keith to his knees, the force rippling through the room in a pale blue wave of power. It’s not enough, though – Keith starts back up again, hands crackling with red light and nails sharpening into wicked curved claws.

“Of course I’m Keith,” he grits out, eyes flashing. “Who else would I be, Takashi?”

Shiro glances frantically for his sword, but it’s on the other side of the room, and too late, Keith follows his gaze and grins. “Don’t,” Shiro warns. “Keith, I _know_ you’re in there, snap out of it, it’s me.”

“It’s _me,”_ Keith mocks, and clicks his tongue in disapproval. “What, you can’t get it through your head that your favorite little mage is cutting ties? I’m not a kid anymore, Shiro. And you’re not a hero. You’re one of _them_ , one of the enemy, and that’s all he’ll _ever_ see you as.”

Keith lunges for his sword.

It’s instinct when Shiro lashes out with a Holy Smite. The brilliant white flames temporarily blind them both, and when they clear, Keith is crumpled on the floor, his hair singed and lashes fluttering, limbs twitching intermittently, strength gone from his body.

Fearing the worst, Shiro falls to his knees beside him, cradling Keith’s head in his shaking hands. “Keith,” he whispers. “Keith, please, wake up.” He feels for a pulse, and just before he finds it, Keith’s eyes crack open, bleary and confused.

“Shiro,” he breathes, and then sits up in a panic, eyes huge. “Shiro!”

Shiro keeps a tight grip on him. “Yes,” he whispers, “it’s me.”

Keith stares up at him. “You were supposed to kill me,” he croaks.

Shiro gawks at him. “I – _what?_ Keith, what are you…”

Keith’s lower lip trembles. “You made a promise,” he whispers. “If I ever hurt another person with my magic…” He breaks off, pressing his lips tight together in a thin red slash. “You should have killed me at my Harrowing and been done with it!”

“Keith, no,” Shiro whispers back, horrified. “I didn’t want to, I was ordered, and Sanda was going to if I didn’t –”

“You should have done it,” Keith insists, voice cracking, his eyes filled with raw fear and deep sorrow. “I don’t know how I got here,” he admits, squeezing his eyes shut. “The longer I stay here in this damned prison, I – I think I’m losing my mind.” He bows his head. “I don’t want to hurt anyone else, Shiro, please, believe me.” The sound he makes is akin to a sob.

“I believe you, Keith...hey, shh, I’ve got you.” Shiro wraps his arms around Keith, tucking him to the curve of his chest, and Keith doesn’t resist, shaking and pressing his cheek to Shiro’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as Keith muffles his sobs in Shiro’s tunic.

Keith’s head jerks up. _“You’re_ sorry? Shiro – I killed those men – I was going to kill you –”

“You didn’t,” Shiro says. “That wasn’t you.”

Keith grips his tunic tighter. “Isn’t that worse?”

“You’re not an abomination,” Shiro says, bowing his head over Keith’s. “I know you’re stronger than it, whatever it is. You didn’t kill me, Keith. You wouldn’t have.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Keith whispers.

Shiro’s fingers curl into Keith’s nightshirt. “I know you,” he murmurs. “And I know that you’re _good_ – I know that, Keith.”

Keith lets out another sob, slumping fully into him, more defeated than accepting.

“I never should have brought you here,” Shiro breathes. “Never, never. You should be free, you should be happy, you –”

“Stop,” Keith gasps. “What’s done is done.”

“No.” Shiro shakes his head with resolve. “I’m going to get you out of here.” He looks down at Keith, brow lowering. “Tonight. Right now.”

Keith sucks in a startled breath. “You can’t,” he whispers, “Shiro, if they find you –”

“Don’t worry about me,” Shiro says, helping Keith to his feet. His knees are still unsteady, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks so much like that first night Shiro found him, yet so different – older, of course, but also so much more tired, almost defeated. The spark of defiance Shiro remembers so well in him is fading. Shiro cannot allow it to be extinguished.

“We must get rid of your phylactery first,” Shiro says. He nods towards the wardrobe. “Get dressed in something warm – it’s freezing outside.”

“Outside,” Keith echoes, longing. He walks with obvious hesitance to the wardrobe, easing it open and peering inside. “These are all yours…”

“Yes, it _is_ my wardrobe,” Shiro chuckles, strained. “Take whatever you want, or whatever will fit, just...something you can blend in with.”

Keith fumbles with a black tunic and some breeches, and Shiro looks away as he changes, until Keith clears his throat and mumbles, “I need help with this...lacing.”

Shiro turns. The entire back of his tunic is unlaced, exposing a long pale strip of spine, the shadowed dip of his back and...Shiro steps closer. There are bruises there, etched into skin already prickling with goosebumps. Shiro reaches out, not to touch, but to draw gently upon the laces, tightening them until they close.

He does not ask about the bruises, but he touches Keith as carefully as he always has, and Keith does not flinch away, but turns his face into Shiro’s palm when Shiro nudges him back around, so they stand looking at each other, and cups his jaw.

“I missed you,” Keith whispers against his skin. “I think maybe I am meant to hate you, but I cannot, no matter how hard I try.”

“I would not blame you if you did,” Shiro says. “But...I am glad you don’t. I thought...you might never speak to me again.”

“We are speaking,” Keith says softly. “But, if you do get me out of here...this is goodbye, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Shiro forces a smile. “But you will not be alone, out there. You have friends who care dearly for you, who have surely missed you these last few years –”

“You are my friend,” Keith says. “And I care for you. Dearly.”

“But I am your enemy in this place,” Shiro sighs, dropping his hand, “and you will not be safe so long as you are here. I cannot protect you – that much is obvious. So you must leave. And after that, who knows, but for now...for now, yes, this is goodbye.”

Keith nods, frowning, but brow furrowed in focus. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Then let’s destroy my damn phylactery.”

*

The phylactery storeroom requires both a mage and a Templar to open it. The doors are dwarven-made, and guarded by two templars.

“Stay here,” Shiro whispers, and leaves Keith hidden in a shadowed alcove as he approaches the guards. They eye him warily; he would not be surprised if Sanda warned them to keep him out.

“Ser Shirogane,” one says. “State your business.”

“I need to retrieve a phylactery,” Shiro says.

They exchange glances. “Ser Shirogane, at this hour? We cannot allow you to –”

One of the guards’ faces purples, and his eyes widen as he claws at his throat, gasping soundlessly for air. The other guard opens his mouth to yell, but before he can let out a peep, Shiro slams him against the solid door, smacking one hand over his mouth and bracing his forearm against the man’s throat until he goes limp, eyes rolling back in his head. He falls unconscious beside the other guard.

Keith creeps out into the open, fingertips still glowing faintly.

“I don’t think _that_ was in the Circle teachings,” Shiro mutters, and gives him a look.

Keith shrugs and walks up to the door, placing his hand on it. “How do we do this?”

Shiro stands next to him, and pushes on the other half of the doors, hand burning with holy light. Following his lead, Keith feeds his own mana into the doors, and within them, some mechanism whirs to life, groaning and creaking as Shiro begins to say the words he memorized a long time ago, just in case he had to do something like this. Keith repeats them, and at last the doors swing inwards, the storeroom cast in silver moonlight.

They stand together, and begin to walk through the glass cabinets of vials. Keith eyes them dully. “There are so many,” he murmurs. “Too many.”

“Yes,” Shiro agrees. “Every vial is a life.”

“But some of these mages are dead,” Keith says. “Aren’t they? How would you know?”

“They stop glowing,” Shiro replies. “They’re just blood, once their owner is gone.”

“Is that not blood magic?” Keith asks.

Shiro pauses. “Hm,” he says.

“Hm?”

Shiro shakes his head. He is exhausted, and angry, and full of a roiling grief which beats against his very bones from the inside out. “I do not know. The Order has many secrets; the Seekers, even more.”

“Wait,” Keith says. He’s stopped in front of a cabinet, and points to a vial within. “Is that one glowing?”

Shiro peers through the glass, then nods, and opens the cabinet...or tries to. It flares with a protective ward, and he scowls at the glowing blue sigil. “Shit. That’s not good.”

Keith stares at it, considering. Then he punches the glass.

 _“Keith!”_ Shiro hisses as the glass shatters, loudly, splintering the sigil down the middle.

Keith has a wild look in his eyes. “Let’s destroy them all,” he says. “Every last one of them.”

Shiro grabs his shoulder, and then, more gently, his clenched fist. “Keith. You’re bleeding.” There are jagged bits of glass stuck in his knuckles. Keith doesn’t notice, and under Shiro’s touch, his skin warms, turning slowly scarlet, redder than blood.

“It’s alright,” Keith whispers. “I’m in control, this time.” He glances up at Shiro. “Cover your ears.”

Slowly, Shiro does.

Every single glass phylactery in the storeroom shatters as the blood within it ignites, and burns away into nothing. Keith’s expression is grimly triumphant, but it is, Shiro is relieved to see, his own. They stare together at the ashen remains inside the cabinets for a few moments, before Shiro mutters that it is time to leave, and hurries with him back to the doors. The guards are waking, and Keith stops beside them.

“If we leave them alive...” he starts.

“Leave them,” Shiro mutters.

“They will know you helped me,” Keith finishes.

“Then let them know.” Shiro shrugs. “I will say you bewitched me, maybe. They might believe it.”

Unsmiling, Keith draws on Shiro’s hand. “Come with me,” he says. “Leave with me, Shiro. You don’t have to stay here.”

“But I do, Keith,” Shiro sighs. “It is my duty. I cannot leave the apprentices, you know that.”

Keith steps closer. “Shiro, please. I...I have a terrible feeling about this place, about you remaining here.”

“Still, I must stay here. I’m sorry,” Shiro says. “Come, Keith. We need to hurry, before the guards wake up.”

They walk down the dark hall, the flickering wall sconces casting their shadows long and monstrous. Shiro brings Keith to the entry they will never think to guard, the old prison yard. The wall which once stood tall and formidable is now crumbling away into moldering stone; it is easy enough to climb. Beyond it lies the docks, rather than the Gallows courtyard – from there, under the cover of night, it should be easy for Keith to slip away to Lowtown.

“You should really leave the city, catch a ship to the south,” Shiro says after telling him this. “Go far from here, to somewhere kinder to mages.”

“What, like Tevinter?” Keith’s mouth twitches. “But there they are crueler to elves, so it seems there is no winning for me.”

“You could go back to the Free Marches,” Shiro suggests. “Find your mother, your people.”

Keith looks out at the road to freedom. “Maybe,” he says. “Must you really make me leave you here, in this wretched prison?”

Shiro nods firmly. “You must. Our paths were never meant to cross, Keith – it was misfortune that brought us together. Once we are apart...then, I hope, you will have better luck.”

Keith shakes his head, eyes shiny. “You did not cause that misfortune, Shiro. In many ways, more ways than you know...you saved me from it.”

“Enough talking,” Shiro murmurs. “Go, Keith.”

“We will meet again,” Keith whispers. “Someday, Shiro.”

“May you live well and long,” Shiro tells him, and, before he can convince himself not to, takes Keith’s face in his hands and kisses his brow. He cannot help but linger there a moment, letting himself inhale the achingly familiar scent of woodsmoke and old books. Keith does not push him away, but rather clings to him, his lips pressed tight as if in pain. “May you stay free, as you should be, and know that you are good and always can be good, no matter what the world may tell you.”

Then, because his chest hurts at the thought of Keith leaving forever, and forgetting him — as he should, maybe, but Shiro cannot bear the thought — he unclasps the heavy black cloak around his own shoulders, and drapes it around Keith’s smaller frame. He has had it since he was very young, but it seems right, somehow, for Keith to have it now. He fastens it carefully at Keith’s throat, and steps away.

“And stay warm,” he adds, voice nearly breaking.

Keith’s face crumples, and he dives forward, arms closing around Shiro’s middle, hugging him hard. “Goodbye, Shiro,” he says. “Thank you. For...for everything.” He looks up, standing so close Shiro can feel the feathering of his warm breath. “There will come a time when I will save you as you have saved me. I promise. You had better stay safe until then.”

And with that, Keith lets go, and runs across the desolate prison yard, clambers up onto the stone ruins, and disappears over the top.

Shiro returns to the east wing with a heavy heart, praying as he goes for Keith to be alright, for Keith to find his friends, his home, his happiness. He prays also for Keith to be strong, stronger than the Fade’s temptations, and the more selfish part of him prays that somehow, Keith is right, and they will meet again, under more pleasant circumstances, and on more equal footing.

He thinks of Keith all grown up, recounting his marvelous adventures over a pint or two in a crowded tavern. He thinks of speaking with Keith, not of mages and templars, but of the places they have explored, the people they have met, the things they have learned. He thinks of lifting his hands to Keith’s, and comparing the span of their joined fingers, the constellations of calluses and small silver scars from swordplay. He thinks of reaching across the table and tucking Keith’s hair behind his ears, and telling him he is the most beautiful being Shiro has ever had the honor of knowing.

He smiles, distracted, and almost misses the low muttering of voices down the hall.

Shiro’s smile falls as he approaches, keeping his steps silent, until he can press his ear to the door. The dormitory belongs to Luka and Merla, and from the crack under the door...a pale, flickering green light spills out. From within, there is a gasp, and then a loud thud, and Shiro pushes the door open, fearing the worst.

But it is even worse than that.

The two girls stand before a rift in the Veil. Shiro knows this is what it is because of how it feels – a wrongness spreading over his skin like pins and needles, burning, yet numb. Through the rift, the air is distorted, and the world on the other side is one Shiro never thought he would see; a world of crooked black peaks and sickly green fog and magic, so much magic it chokes him, even as it drags him in.

“Ser Shirogane,” Luka whispers, her face ashen. “We – we didn’t mean to –”

“Get back,” Shiro whispers as _something_ moves within the rift, a looming and hungry shadow sensing an escape. “Get back!” Shiro bellows, and lunges for the rift as the terror demon leaps from it. The two girls scream, and hot blood splatters across Shiro’s chest, and the unstable rift, ripped asunder by two unwitting apprentices dealing with forces they did not understand, slams shut.

*

When Shiro opens his eyes, there is no more ceiling, nor sky. There is only an endless void of gray, and as he sits up, the gray coalesces into green. The earth beneath him is not earth; it is moving, breathing like a living creature. Shiro scrambles to his feet, whirling around. It cannot be, yet it is. He knows the truth of it as utterly as he knows that Luka and Merla are dead.

But perhaps he is dead, also. Perhaps this thing, which feels so like his body, is in fact his spirit.

Shiro hopes he is dead.

Because the alternative is that he is physically trapped in the Fade for eternity.

_(END OF ACT I.)_

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me for more sheith & general shenanigans on twitter @saltyshiro](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro)
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> stay tuned for act 2 <3


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